


Decline and Fall

by ars_belli



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Canon, Backstory, Gen, No House of Gaunt, Riddle at Hogwarts Era, World War II
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-19
Updated: 2013-04-02
Packaged: 2017-12-05 20:23:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/727550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ars_belli/pseuds/ars_belli
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Minerva McGonagall and Tom Riddle encounter each other as students.  Just students, not enemies, not yet.  After all, they were allies first.  (Started pre-HBP: Marvolo-verse, no Gaunts, not necessarily AU.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The residue of Monday

**Author's Note:**

> Not HBP-compliant, since this was started long before that and the Gaunts joss the Marvolo family (and Julius). The aforementioned Marvolos are truly gone from the world by Chapter 1, but McTabby's readers should find small glimpses here and there.  
> A (possible) warning: Reinhard Heydrich is set to enter the story at the half-way mark. There are plenty of HP fics with Hitler-as-Grindelwald in them that exist without rebuke, but I hope that no-one finds it triggering or offensive.

Central's heydays had passed decades ago, gone like the etchings of old rivalries on the walls, the now-blank shield upon which a night's wagers had glowed, the terminated echoes of a divided school with its unified houses. The alumni who had once frequented the vast room now loitered in plebeian graves or patrician crypts or even - though few - the Muggle cemeteries of their parents. Minerva had never seen anyone there before, unless one counted Dumbledore turning slow circles in it with a wistful smile on his face, at some godforsaken hour when student and mentor should have been in their beds. But Minerva had blundered into the room in an abortive attempt to head off Tamino's mischief and Dumbledore - well, who could fathom what he might have been doing? Dancing a partnerless waltz in an empty room might even register as normal for the eccentric professor.  
"Galleon for your thoughts?"  
She turned to look at the young man sitting on the bay window seat.  
"I believe the expression is 'Knut for your thoughts' Mister Riddle," she replied wryly.  
"So I imagine, but valuing your thoughts at a Knut would be insulting, Miss McGonogall."  
Were eleven year-olds even supposed to know the meaning of 'flirting'? She mentally shook herself.  
"I thought you'd be in the common room by now with your other housemates."  
She could have hit herself as soon as the words reified themselves in the cool September air. Of all the things to say to a Muggle-born Slytherin. An orphaned one at that. Something flickered across his face, lighting up the deep blue eyes or changing the shadows made by too chiselled cheekbones on his pale skin. She knew him better than any other student did, yet she could never discern his expressions.  
"Quiet is a rare commodity in my experience," he said lightly. "Besides, I thought I would leave the first-years to their squabbling and status games for a while."  
For want of anything better to do to cover her faux pas she crossed the room and perched on the opposite end of the seat. A thick silence coated the room like the dust did. No house-elves had ventured here for decades. Moonlight leached the richness from the room, leaving even the gold ceiling roses only a silvery glint, the candelabras hanging beneath them suddenly thorny, terrifying, as if the graceful cast iron curls had gone wild when the room removed itself from the rest of the castle.  
"Do you know about the history of this room?" she asked.  
"Not really. The book mentions it in passing - thank you for it - again," his voice trailed off in something like embarrassment.  
Besides his textbooks it was the only book he owned, she thought. She'd spent more on a present for a boy she barely knew than for her best friend.  
"I assume you know something of the room's history then?"  
Riddle's voice was all calm, crisp Oxford schoolboy inflection once more.  
"I--" she smothered a yawn, causing a grin to slither across Riddle's features. Yes, he would be a handsome one a few more years along his mortal coil. Thirteen was too young an age to be noticing such things according to her parents, but they didn't have control over the giggles of her dorm-mates. Or those lurid books Elke Niedhardt kept reading...ugh.  
"Sorry. The room. Well, there are areas of the school in which the Houses are encouraged to mix. Apparently this was one of Hufflepuff's better ideas: she was against the House division, you see, but was overruled by the other Founders."  
Riddle nodded silently. Those eyes were very disconcerting, fixed on her like the serpent before it lunges...  
"The central common room was the largest of these areas - and the only one in which serious magic was allowed-"  
"The History mentioned duelling-"  
She laughed. Trust a Slytherin to pick the most dangerous topic. Or a Gryffindor.  
"I don't think duelling was allowed anywhere, but for some reason the Masters let the students get away with it in Central. At least they would know where most of the dangerous magic was occurring instead of students trying to slip it under their noses. At any rate, this room was a huge hub of magical activity until, oh, sometime in the late eighteen hundreds."  
"Perhaps that explains things, yes."  
The murmur wasn't meant for her ears, that was for certain. His eyes were half-closed behind their lids, like an asp ensnared in the snake-charmer's web of melody and rhythm.  
"Can you see it?" he asked suddenly, eyes snapping open. "Ever since I can remember, I sometimes saw colours floating across my vision, like the effect one gets after looking at a bright light for too long. It seems to happen more when magic is nearby. Is it-? You've never seen it, have you?"  
His excitement faded into stillness, awkwardness.  
"When you've just done magic?"  
"Oh, all the time! When I entered Diagon Alley for the first time, it was like a stream of fireworks in my head!"  
No. He couldn't be. Who had ever heard of someone feeling other people's magic unless it was directed at them?  
"Why did they stop using the room?" the boy asked suddenly.  
"It only lasted a few years after females were allowed into Hogwarts again, but I doubt it was our fault."  
He laughed.  
"No, probably House rivalry got in the way, not helped by changes of syllabus and the OWL/NEWT scheme. External exams," she added at his blank look. "Even nowadays the House division means one won't see many students outside one's own House socially unless one makes an effort. Especially-"  
Ye gods, she was about to put her size ten wand into her size two cauldron again.  
"Especially?" his voice trailed off enticingly.  
He could even raise a single eyebrow. She'd always wanted to learn how to do that.  
"Especially if you start the term by losing House points. Off to bed with the both of you now!"  
Professor Dumbledore strode into the room, crimson robes trailing in his wake.  
"Miss McGonogall, loitering is no way to start third year, unless you are trying to entice young Master...Riddle here into your nocturnal escapades."  
Minerva flushed. She wasn't that much of a troublemaker. Well...  
"Mister Riddle, mine is the first class tomorrow - your first taste of real magic! I don't want to see you yawning in it."  
Professor Dumbledore chivvied him out of sight towards the dungeons while Minerva's feet headed upwards. She must have been hearing things, after all the transfiguration professor had called him 'Mister' the second time. 'Master' was the title of a patrician boy.


	2. Misnomer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom might have missed the Blitz, but Fall Seelöwe - the invasion of England - looms. He's been evacuated to the country and by Merlin, he's not happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In spite of my best efforts, I think I've dislocated the historical timeline by a few months. 'Operation Sealion', Göring and Raeder belong to Hitler - the Reichsmarschall wouldn't fit through my door anyway - and the term "Gezaubererpolizei" (literally 'magic police') belongs to Valdhery's HP fic Of Snakes and Foxes.

> 
>     Marvolo
>        Family II 313-457 illus. 320
>          Game, role in I 14-17
>          Magic, 
>            advancement of  III 1, 3, 26-45, 102-314, 
>            theory IV 2, 7, 29-36, 77-79, 93, 95, 
>            also see by name (M-theory etc.)
>            also see by discipline (Alchemy, Dark Arts, etc.)
>          Slytherin,
>           association with House I 14
>       Individuals

The index cited a total of ninety-two biographies, six hundred and four contributions to major elements of modern magic, one family tree and two portraits. Tom's sense of triumph was extinguished with his light source as another one of Lucius Tiddlypuss' Never-Blow-Out Finest Hippogriff-Wax Candles sputtered into its death throes at a blast of wind. Perhaps Black had realised that his new Potions partner had been generously redistributing his possessions after all. A half-hissed curse fled his lips, although there was no-one nearby to hear.  
"Riddle!"  
A shadow appeared at his door, defined only by the corona of light from the corridor. A new inmate, judging by his voice and his forced bravado. Father shot at Dunkirk? Mother drank herself to death? Perhaps the boy was the last, tearful survivor of an air raid. He couldn't raise a shred of sympathy. If the Muggles would fight these senseless wars, they might at least consider the consequences.  
"Matron wants you. Not in the office, in the sitting room."  
The imperious summons was ruined by the boy's stifled yawn. At this hour? Mad, she was. Mad, superstitious, certainly stupid and occasionally none too sober, "Missus Cole," (Matron's chosen sobriquet) embodied everything despicable about the Muggle world. Tom broke off his musings to find that the other orphan loitered in the doorway still. Thus, Tom was forced to jump unceremoniously from the chair whose legs were still longer than his own. Wincing and pretending to rub pins and needles from his legs gave Tom the time to consider hiding the book. If he did not hide the volume, someone might read it and know that it was special — or that Tom was barking mad to believe in magic — and would tell Matron. Or worse, the other boys, destroying the ominous reputation that was his only shield in this world. There were no locks on the orphans' rooms and it would be a very naive newcomer who had not heard of Riddle's reputation, but the chance was non-zero. Yet if he did hide the book, one person would know that there was something special about it. And tell Matron, who would either sell it for extra ration coupons or use it as firewood. Hoping that its spells would charm it to look like a standard Muggle textbook to anyone else, he left it open and followed his new corridor-mate from the room. Tom brooded on his earlier concealment of what magical items he'd saved from confiscation. Never had his cramped shoebox of a room seemed barer. There wasn't even a loose floorboard he could use! The result, of course, had been inevitable: he couldn't even keep his wand when faced by a Muggle with a rusty poker. _Marvolo. Slytherin._ Even the book mocked him.

"I realise rumour-mongering is bad for morale, but is there an invasion? We had Ger-ring with his air raids, so perhaps the navy will be just as hopeless?" gushed Matron.  
"Göring" was probably the spelling, Tom thought. Any hours in the orphanage found him devouring whatever knowledge came to hand - and from theft - in great, hungry gulps. Languages were always useful, so he'd started on those. A false, unfamiliar, laugh, a clink of teacup on saucer. The pair paused before the doorway. While the other orphan knocked on the closed sitting-room door and beat a hasty retreat, Riddle checked his cuffs for invisible dirt, readying himself with a smile and charm in place.  
"My apologies, Matron, Mrs - ?"  
He paused, dumbfounded. That wasn't — yet she looked just like Dolores — who was surely her vile daughter! But even in Slytherin, that didn't guarantee that her mother was a witch... Mentally, he shook himself.  
"Mrs. Umbridge—" began Matron.  
Would the stranger also take his pause for politeness?  
"Call me Dolores!" she simpered, gazing at him.  
Oh gods, _Dolores_ had even transferred her mannerisms along with her name!  
"— _Dolores_ is here to arrange evacuation for you poor young things to the countryside. I thought she would like to see how responsible and well-mannered the children are, especially our star pupil!"  
If there were any truth in that sentence he'd transfigure Dumbledore into a tap-dancing canary during the Sorting. A deformed, pustulant one. Minerva would never speak to him again! Punishment notwithstanding, the idea was very tempting.  
"My pleasure," he murmured.  
His glance flicked to the possibly-witch. Who was she? The Slytherin resolved to pay more attention to his Housemates endless babblings in future. He risked a question.  
"Does this mean it's Raeder's turn with the Navy, or is it Grindelwald's and the Gezaupo?"  
"Oh, isn't he well-informed!" beamed the elder Umbridge.  
Definitely not a Muggle. So the Gezaubererpolizei really did exist, instead of being Prophet propaganda. Reginald Skeeter might have been right about the wizarding offshoot of the Gestapo: a rare occurrence for the tabloid king. Riddle returned his attention to the conversation.  
"If all of your poor young things are so well-mannered, I will be certain to pass their names on to the Great Malvern Victory Committee."  
"Even him? You are too kind!" Matron gushed a bit more and took a healthy slug of her teacup of gin.  
"Even him?" echoed Umbridge. "There were some difficulties with him before?"  
The cup clattered onto the saucer.  
"Difficulties? Oh no, he is such a bright young thing, so quiet! Yet the others all say... Well, I do think it would be better if perhaps he didn't..."  
Tom did not like where this was heading. Everyone else would be in the countryside and he would be stuck in London! He plunged recklessly into the conversation.  
"What Matron is too kind to elucidate is that some of the others are put off by my, er, intellectual pursuits. They would much prefer it if I weren't around to put a damper on their adventures."  
His eyes were fixed on the witch. Was there a hint of laughter in Umbridge's perhaps-too-knowing smile?  
"I quite understand. My daughter is so studious as well! They are rather suited to each other! I don't think my husband will mind if we take him in. It shall be one less billet to find at any rate. One should always be keen to set a fine example to the other mothers, should one not?"  
The look on Matron's face! Enchanting! How would she talk her way out of this one?  
"Certainly Dolores! We'll put him on the same evacuation train as the others."  
Two months stuck with the Umbridges. Cow. Not even magic could make up for that!

For the second time in as many weeks Tom plunged into the seething mass of humanity at King's Cross station. A bandaged soldier swayed unsteadily past him. Tom caught only 'Spook Division', 'Rommel' and 'St. Valery' before his mates prevented him from blundering off the platform. Pity. He sucked in an unwilling breath, trying to control his temper. All this fuss over a bit of Poland!  
"Have you all got your gas masks and bags? Follow me!"  
While the rest of the orphans fumbled with string-knotted cases and unfamiliar equipment, Tom slid his way to the group nearest the barrier. If he could just slip through he'd be at Hogsmeade in three days: he had no fear of walking along the tracks. The coin acquired from those house-mates too stupid or lazy to do their own homework would last for -- how long? Never having had any money before, Tom realised, he had no idea what things cost.  
He dropped his case with a loud thump. Hastily, he bent down and tested the magical wall to the real platform. Under pretense of repacking, he gave it a harder shove. It was more resilient than usual; the colours dancing across his vision too bright, too complex in their embroidery across the fabric of reality. He glanced along the platform and saw some of the escorting adults staring at him, realising with a sigh of relief that the snickering of his fellows must have reached them. Tom adopted a sheepish expression and for good measure waved a pair of socks at the busybodies to indicate his foolishness. They turned away. Hastily, he snatched his case and dived towards Platform 9 ³⁄₄. 

His wand was hot in his fingers; the tingling of magic in his veins was too sharp and thorny; he ignored the command ringing in his mind "Go back, go back, go back!" Concealment be damned! His mind shrieked at finding the loopholes and he slammed into something, stripped of thought, hearing and vision.  
"Merlin and Circe! Sincerest apologies!"  
Tom sucked in air while his eyes presented a blurry sketch of silvery hair and tanned face above a broad, muscular frame encased in navy robes.  
His assailant didn't wait for Tom to recover. There was a wand at his neck. "Julius? Tell me how you slithered from Hades, you snake!"  
"Not Julius, but I feel as if I've been dragged from the underworld," Tom replied dryly.  
The wand lowered. "Er...ah. Perhaps you'd better sit down until I find your parents. You look a bit peaky, lad. I'll get my daughter to look after you - if she ever turns up in this mess," his assailant snapped, voice transforming from awkward to annoyed.  
Tom caught a flash of gold on the robes: crossed wands above the dragon of St. George. Gods, he'd walked straight into the head of the Auror department, Sir William—  
"Pa!" shrieked a voice, before Sir William embraced a blur of dark hair and long legs.  
Had the ground split open before him, Tom would have happily leaped into the molten rock beneath. He fixed his eyes on a crack in the barrier and his ears on the mindless hum of surrounding chatter, ignoring the emerald robes which encased her figure so well and would inevitably, he thought grimly, lend a green tinge to those lovely grey eyes; pointedly avoiding the fond paternal conversation which he had always been denied.  
 _Coward_ , chided his mind. He shrugged involuntarily. That didn't bother him: the distinguishing trait of his House was astute duplicitousness - and perhaps moral flexibility. He wasn't a Gryffindor with their strange prerequisites of bravery and self-sacrifice.  
 _Yet a Master of the Dark Arts must have nerves of adamant,_ whispered his conscience.  
But he would also recognise discretion as being the better part of valour, surely?  
"Tom!" Minerva exclaimed, looking at him with undisguised curiosity.  
"You're classmates then? Why don't you and Minerva catch up while I find Jul--Tom's parents and I'll see you back here?"  
"I, I don't have any, Sir William," Tom put in swiftly.  
He flushed slightly under Minerva's gaze, certain that the brown tag on him made him look like some kind of human post - and he felt a damn fool already!  
" 'T. M. Riddle, c/o Mrs. Dolores Umbridge'," quoted her father discreetly, eying the tag.  
"Oh, that. I'm being put up with her her for the duration of the summer."  
"You mean you have to put up with her," joked Minerva. "Her daughter set my hair on fire in Charms," she clarified.  
The faintest of smiles broke through Tom's sour expression.  
"And other things besides, if the rumours are true," he added.  
"Your House rumours at any rate. I don't know how you stand sharing the same common room - with her brother too!"  
"You would be a Slytherin, wouldn't you?" her father murmured, almost unaware of saying it.  
"You wouldn't mind if—" Minerva began, eyes alight.  
" _No_ , Minnie."  
"Father! Must you call me that?"  
The young lady flushed several shades of scarlet in as many seconds, avoiding Tom's eyes. Fine with him - she wouldn't see that state of his clothes. They drooped from his thin frame anyway after weeks of rationing. His threadbare shoelaces. His uncombed hair. That bloody postage tag.  
"Special Executive hasn't vetted him," the Auror-General clarified.  
"Surely they'd allow Tom - he's hardly dangerous! And...and how would he have passed through the barrier _un_ vetted by the Minstry?"  
Point for her then. How had he done it?  
Meanwhile, Sir William looked spectacularly unconvinced. Tom couldn't even manipulate a total stranger! A fine Slytherin he made.  
"Wait here," the Auror-General ordered. He whirled to face Tom again. "What does the M stand for?"  
Riddle met his gaze guilelessly. "Marvolo."  
"Of course," Sir William snorted.  
He stalked off. Well, wasn't this nice?

"He isn't always like that," Minerva muttered.  
"It doesn't matter," he managed to reply. "Thank you for, well, for offering to take me in."  
At least he was talking to her scalp. Were Minerva staring at his face rather than her shoes, he might become distracted. He did tend to spout, if not nonsense, at least the obvious under her scrutiny.  
"I thought you might be lonely in the — I mean, without your Housemates. And it isn't as if the Umbridges are pleasant," she rushed out, as if saying the words faster made them more palatable.  
"Yes. I often wish I had company. Not, not that I want visitors exactly, just ... someone with whom to talk. Some letters perhaps. Of course the air raid wardens might spot the owls, which would be a difficulty, or another wizard intercept the post."  
He checked himself. Slytherins did not babble. The conversation flickered out. For a while Tom entertained the thought of someone from school actually bothering to write, or worse, visit. He certainly did not want visitors. God forbid anyone should turn up at that hellhole and see what he was truly like! Meanwhile, Minerva was curiously eying his Muggle attire. Nevertheless, she seemed content to watch him in silence. Sir William returned several minutes later, carrying a sheaf of parchment and a chip on his shoulder.  
"Bloody Ministry! There's less paperwork to have Veritaserum made than spare identity papers! These are yours," he added belatedly, thrusting the scroll at Tom, "Do _not_ lose them, or I'll transfigure you into a Flobberworm." He turned his attention to his daughter again and Tom wordlessly took the cue to examine his new papers and ignore the both of them. 

> 
>     Name: Marvolo-Riddle, Thomas       né(e):   
>     > 
>     Date of birth: 31 December 1927    Place of birth: London, England  
>     > 
>     Gens: ~~patri~~ ~~Muggle~~ Mixed           Occupation: Student

A great flourish struck out both "Mother:" and "Father:" and someone had squeezed "Not applicable (orphan)" into the space for the former and "W. O. McGonagall in loco parentis" into the latter. He traced the words with a finger. How was the ministry supposed to know who his parents were if he didn't? He didn't know what "Gens" meant either, but from the crossing out, he guessed that it meant no-one even knew whether his parents had been Muggle or wizard! Riddle fought down a surge of disappointment. At least "Umbridge" didn't feature on it!  
"I'll show you to the civilian train Minnie," remarked her father.  
"Must you leave already?"  
He spared a glance for Tom for a minute, ignoring his daughter's plea.  
"You too. SOE cleared you for residence — but don't either of you dare enter the operations wing, you hear me?"  
"Yes, Father."  
"Of course, Sir William," he remarked innocently.


End file.
